- Event: Chaos 030
I was five years old the first time I walked through the backdoor of the Dallas Sportatorium. It was the biggest barn I had ever seen. It was enormous. And they’d pack it full, thousands of people jammed inside. The rows and rows of removable bleachers stacked around the ring. I remember walking into the building holding my Father’s hand that evening. We had just crawled out of his old red and white two-toned Dodge pickup truck. He loved that truck, it had the diamond plate steel running boards, and the in-line six cylinder that hummed along. The red vinyl interior that we had to make sure to protect with a cover anytime the sun was out.
And it had that big giant Ram hood ornament on it. That articulated bit of steel was the most majestic thing I had ever seen. When I was first learning to drive, my Dad told me to line that hood ornament up with the white line on the road. No matter what I did, if I had those lined up, we’d go straight. But anyway, back to the Sportatorium. It was the most majestic building I’d ever seen.
And now it’s a Fuel city.
So I stood on the side of the road, the black F250 sat underneath the red and blue canopy at the pump. But the Sportatorium pulled at me, I had to try to remember it. The image was so vivid in my head, sliding across the red vinyl bench seat, I could feel my feet stepping onto the running board and jumping off. I ran up to catch up with my Dad. He had his burnt orange University of Texas bag slung over his shoulders. He reached his hand out, and I took his.
It might have been the last time I had held his hand.
Today though, I was shirtless, wearing jeans and a cowboy hat, marching up the side of a six-lane road in Dallas. It was all gone, you couldn’t even make out the foundation anymore. The road back then was much smaller. Only three lanes. So much had changed, but I was determined. I began walking through the calf high grass, one eye on my feet, and the other looking off in the distance.
No matter the angle I looked at, no matter the small intricate details I tried to remember, this wasn’t the same Dallas, Texas that it used to be. The city had changed and transformed, just like the rest of our world. Back then, they’d pack the Sportatorium, tickets sold out weeks in advance, the city loved wrestling. The two things Dallas was known for were, football which had to be first, but wrestling second.
I remember the little boys who chased the wrestlers into the arena, hounding them for autographs. I remember my father stopping and signing every single one of them. I remember his smile, how he’d nod and laugh. He’d ask each kid their name, making sure to sign their notebooks ‘Your Friend, Robbie Byrd’ so the kids wouldn’t argue about who he liked more.
But the city had changed, and a man startled me. He was screaming and shouting at the edge of the Fuel City parking lot. He looked an awful lot like a police officer, and I had never been very fond of those guys, but I was pretty sure they tended to drive cars that read ‘POLICE’ down the side. Clearly, officer ‘who the fuck knows’ was curious about the giant shirtless man standing out in one of the few patches of grass left in all Dallas.
He waved his arms and shouted for me to come over to him.
“Welp, fuck me,” I mumbled as I walked towards him. I tried to blow my breath up into my own nostrils to see if I could still smell the whiskey, but it smelled stale and putrid. Almost bordering on sweet. I looked down and walked over to him.
“Officer,” I said in my best ‘please don’t arrest me’ voice while giving a smile and a wave. He gave me a look that could only be described as a ‘what kind of weird and suspicious shit are you doing over there’ look.
“Sorry officer, was just takin’ a look while I filled up. Back in the day, my old man used ta wrestle in a barn right here. Just tryin’ ta see if I can get the ol’ nostalgia goin’.” I put on my best smile, even though I knew I looked like shit.
“There used to be a barn back there?” The cop asked, confused. The industrialization of the area had led to a buildup of infrastructure and highway that completely masked the old arena. Unless you were from the area, you would never know it was there.
“Yeah, they called it the sportatorium. Used to be a bunch of wrasslin’ pretty much right where the station is,” I tried to keep my distance, but the officer beckoned me closer. I knew better than to run, or try anything stupid. I’m a drunk, not a fucking moron. So I came closer like he asked, stepping onto the blacktop.
“Yeah, that’s great. You got any ID on you?” the officer asked, I shook my head and pointed to the truck.
“Over in the truck, you want me ta grab it?” the officer looked at me, looked down at his watch, then back up at me. Luckily his radio squawked, and he reached up to his shoulder, squeezing the radio situated beside his bodycam. He mumbled a response into it, and turned back to me.
“Just stay out of the grass, off the side of the road, and with your vehicle,” he said while shaking his head and heading back to his car. I walked carefully back over towards the truck, my heart racing. I watched him pull away, and I stared at the half-drunk bottle of Jack Daniels on the passenger’s side of the bench seat.
“I gotta knock this shit off…” I said the words out loud, maybe I’d take my own advice for once. I took one last look at the gas station where the Sportatorium stood, and I sighed. It was all gone.
——————————
I never left Fuel City that day, it had everything I needed. A busy enough parking lot that nobody would notice my truck parked around back, it had beer, it had food, it was all I really needed to survive. So I stayed. I sat in the truck, turning one Coors Light six-pack into another.
What has become of my life?
Last time I wrestled in Dallas was almost two years ago. I beat some dickhead named Lester into a piss puddle in the middle of the ring. That night I had gone to the hotel my Dad normally booked, I had spent time wandering the halls, looking for anything familiar. And now here I was, looking at the former site of my father’s glory. I was still thinking about that first trip to the Sportatorium. I was still drinking, and I was pounding them away like they were water, I was trying to drown my feelings.
I remembered the locker room that night, my old man had let me walk around. He introduced me to all my favorites, ‘Jumping’ Jack Moss, Matt ‘Meathook’ Robinson. Each one was incredibly kind. They signed my little notebook, and ruffled my hair. It was different from my father with the kids outside. The smiles weren’t fake, or contrived. The questions weren’t forced. They were excited to talk to me. They wanted to know what I wanted to be, and they all laughed when I said a Transformer.
I was part of the family.
Wrestling was different back then, on one hand, people were more imperfect. Billy Winters wore a rebel flag to the ring and choked Big Ben Mills with it during a match, and he was black.
Sure, I remembered it all through rose-tinted glasses, but it was my childhood, and I got to meet my heroes. Other than Optimus Prime, which even without Optimus, it was still pretty awesome. Matt Robinson and I even had a little wrestling match on the floor that night. While my old man was out wrestling. I was busy in the locker room, getting the tag from Jack Moss, and running wild with a lariat on Matt Robinson.
It’s probably one of the best days of my life.
I remember my father coming through the curtain, he was holding his back, drenched in sweat. I didn’t ask him what happened, I didn’t ask him how his match went, I ran over and told him I had pinned Matt Robinson, and he immediately lit up with a smile. He scooped me up in his arms, laughing and smiling while Matt was still laying out cold in the middle of the floor. He was proud of me that night.
What would he think of me, now?
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You’re coming home? Evan, Dallas is my home. I grew up here. I know this city like it’s my own. I know all its dark little secrets, I remember everything. When I walk through that curtain in Dallas, that crowd is going to be fucking electric. They’ll watch Clayton Byrd, the son of Robert Byrd, one of their own, walk through that curtain.
Every single person in that building will look down and they won’t see me. They’ll see what they could have been, they’ll ignore all the genetic gifts, and look at me and think if they had worked hard, they could have been in that fucking ring. That if they had just sacrificed a little bit more, if they had just pushed a little harder, they could be in the center of that ring.
This isn’t going to be a friendly place, Evan.
The ones that remember, the ones that remember what this town used to be. They’ll be in that building. They’ll know who I am, they’ll know who my Daddy was. They’ve followed my athletic career, my entire life. These people know how many tackles I had in each little league season. They’ll all be there, and the roof on the American Airlines Arena is going to pop off. Twenty thousand people are going to be screaming their fucking head off like it’s Friday night and they are at the Texas state championship game.
And as much as I hate you Evan, as much as I hate you for all your bullshit. For all the fucking garbage that spews from your mouth, it might not be enough. Maybe you are just that much fucking better than me, maybe you’re some unstoppable fucking force. Maybe you are unbeatable. Maybe you are the next great Hall of Fame comeback, and my normal effort against shit heads isn’t going to be enough.
But we’re in Texas.
We’re in fucking Texas, Evan. The land of the free, the home of the fucking brave. This is foreign fucking soil for non-Texans, this is the home of the Alamo. This is the home of America’s football team. This is MOTHERFUCKING Texas, Evan. I’m going to have twenty thousand people behind me, willing me to beat you. Begging for me to beat you. And I can’t let them down Evan, I can’t let down twenty-thousand fellow Texans. I can’t walk out down that fucking ramp, wearing a cowboy hat, carrying a fucking bullrope, and let my people down.
For better, or for worse. These are my people Evan. I can’t let them down.
Even if they’ll cheer for anyone from Texas.
——————————
I looked at the half handle of whiskey sitting on the floor of the truck. The six-pack of Coors Light had already vanished. I picked the handle up, twisting the lid open. I looked to either side of the truck, about to take a swig. In my rearview mirror, I watched another police car pull up to the gas station. I twisted the cap back on the handle of whiskey, and slid my shirt over it.
I waited, and waited, it felt like the police officer was inside of the gas station forever. Finally he made his exit, and I pulled the handle of whiskey back out. I twisted the cap off, and the smell of the bottle hit me.
My stomach curdled.
At least that’s what I imagine a stomach does when it makes the noise right before you’re about to shit your pants, or vomit. I twisted the cap back on the bottle, I looked to my right, and packed my empties and the handle into the plastic ‘Fuel City’ bag and tied the top. I eyed up the dumpster, and looked over the area, just to be sure I hadn’t missed an officer hiding out somewhere.
I walked up to the dumpster and threw the bag inside.
——————————–
The rest of that night we stood just behind the stage set up. With all of the flashing lights, and the music, the fans didn’t even know we were there. My father picked me up and put me up on his shoulders when one of my favorites was wrestling so I could see them. I asked him a million questions.
‘Why did the referee count so slow?’
‘Why doesn’t he just walk away if he doesn’t want to wrestle?’
‘Why didn’t the ref see that guy throw salt in the other’s eyes?’
‘Dad, Meathook just beat that big guy, think I could?’
I was young, I was curious, and my father let me soak it all in. He answered every question he could. The last match of the night, ‘Jumping’ Jack Moss was taking on the World Champion. Jack was from Arkansas, and the kids all loved him. He was young, had long hair, and looked like a rock star. But then, out came the World Champion. Jackie Titus was a bad guy, he was a millionaire from Fort Worth. He loved to infuriate the children, he hated the Dallas Cowboys.
I hated Jackie Titus more than I hated Megatron.
He walked out with his bright shiny robe, with all it’s sequins, and strutted his way to the ring. The young people in the stands, they booed him. But I could hear the cheers coming from the upper deck. I could see the middle aged men, all clapping and cheering. I didn’t understand what ‘wish fulfillment’ ment at the time, but now I do. And all of those old men, they wanted to be Jackie Titus. They wanted to be the champion, they wanted to be the bully. Jackie took the microphone off of the ring announcer and ran down ‘Jumping’ Jack Moss. He called him every name in the book, he made fun of him because he was different. And the old men cheered along with him. They started to call ‘Jumping’ Jack names, things I was told never to say to another human being.
“Dad, why are they saying that?” I had lowered my head down beside my fathers ear, cupping my hands, and probably shouting directly into his ear.
“Cause they’re all a bunch of bigots, Clay…” he said momentarily, before sitting me down off of his shoulders. He kneeled down beside me, and put my little hand into his enormous one. “Let’s go to the back, Clay. I’m sure ‘Meathook’ could go another round.”
My Dad looked up into the stands, a look of worry coming across his face as a younger man punched an older one in the face. We walked to the back as the main event of the Sportatorium raged on. As we walked through the back, I looked up at Matt Robinson who was sitting with his singlet pulled down off of his shoulders.
“Hey Matt, why do the fans like Jackie?” Matt smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“Texans love anyone from Texas, Clay. Even if they are jerks.”
I turned to my Dad, and he sighed. I didn’t know it at the time, but Matt Robinson was behind me grinning ear to ear. Apparently, the most excited he’d been all night.
“Your turn to go a few rounds with your boy, Byrd.”
——————————
Evan, have you ever watched a fish get ripped in half by a shark? You know the ones, one of those reef sharks grabs a fish just behind the pectoral fin, and bites down. Its teeth slicing through the fish’s bones and scales like a hot knife through butter. You’ve been fucked up, sitting on the couch in mid-July watching Shark Week before, right? You know exactly what I’m talking about… When that fish just keeps swimming along, its innards spilling out in a path of gore behind it.
But see, the fish is stupid. Most of them are. They understand the world in moments, they understand the world in brief flashes. They react to the basic commands their bodies send forth, they don’t think, they simply act. So they keep swimming, they try to keep wiggling forward. Their mouths rapidly open and close, trying to push water across their gills. For a few seconds, that’s how they have always been. They’ve always been half of a fish. So they push on, their mouths opening slower and slower.
Evan, you’re the fish. And you’re just swimming along in the #97RED sea making awkward mouth noises, not realizing you’re already fucking dead.
That entire disrespect thing, Evan, that was small potatoes in this world. I was irritated, perturbed. I was acting with my emotions, wearing them on my sleeve. Or, I guess, spat on your chest. But they were still out there, the entire world could see them. The entire world could tell that ‘Clyd Byrd’ was a little bit angry about the disrespect.
But now, now you’ve infuriated me.
You want to be under my skin? You wanted to piss me off? Evan, that’s exactly where you are. That’s exactly what’s happened. I’m not happy, I’m not thrilled. I’m angry, I’m furious. See this isn’t some ‘NO U’ argument that Jace Parker Davidson has on Twitter about who is really upset when both men are crying into the front of their t-shirt. No, Evan. This is different. There’s some things I hate in this world Evan, some things I fucking despise.
And you, you’re one of them. A fucking bigot.
No Evan, don’t run off with your fingers in your ears. No amount of ‘NA NA NA I CAN’T HEAR YOU’ can save you from encountering the consequences of your actions. That’s already scheduled Evan, it’s already come down from on high, GOD has already declared you’ll suffer the consequences for your big bad tendencies.
And no Evan, this isn’t how everyone calls everyone a Nazi when they are upset.
See, I was watching along. Watching you. Listening to you berate me, and compare me, Clay Byrd, with Scott Stevens. I listened, while you droned on and on about it. Talking about how great things were back in 2012. How I gave you a flashback to that time. That I had almost got your little guy to stand at attention. That you were excited, ready to fucking go. You were probably thinking you were really grabbing me by the short and curlies.
Oh sorry, was that too close to my dick? I don’t want to scare you. But apparently, just like you and Scott Stevens, there’s a lot of things that should have stayed in the 2012 version of High Octane Wrestling.
So let’s talk about it, let’s get it all out in the open. What do you have against homosexual men?
Why in all of the world, would you go out there and run your mouth talking about Brokeback Mountain? It’s a love story about two cowboys who find comfort on the prairie in the arms of one another. Is there something wrong with that? Something bad about it? Why make the comparison?
Well, I mean, unless you think it’s a bad thing to be homosexual.
But I really don’t think ‘who’ someone goes home to at night really determines which person is going to beat the fuck out of the other in a wrestling ring. I don’t think if I came home every night to a Texan named Scott, and we sat around jamming our thumbs in each other’s asses, that it would really determine how my wrestling match went. I don’t think someone’s sexual orientation is directly related to their prowess inside of a wrestling ring.
But you seem to think that.
See, it’s that backwards thinking Evan, that’s why I fucking despise you. Just because you’re Evan Ward, just because you’re a hall of famer, you think the rules of society don’t apply to you. No Evan, just like Stevens, just like Jace Parker Davidson, they absolutely fucking apply to you.
I will make sure they do. I will drive you into dust. I will massacre you. Just like I’ve done to them Evan, just like I did to John Sektor in my first match when he walked out and yammered on and on about how he was going to assert his dominance by fucking me in the ass. Just like I do to every dumb fucking homophobic prick who thinks going to the brokeback mountain well is a smart decision.
I’m going to break you Evan. So there won’t be any ‘Ward Games’, we won’t be taking you to Mexico.
Instead they’ll be cleaning your corpse up off of a canvas in Dallas.